Imitation is Not the Sincerest Form of McFlattery
by scousemuz1k
Summary: Tony's not happy when Tim decides to wear a shoulder holster, but not for the reasons Tim thinks. A Tolster story


**The last time I wrote a Tolster story, I got a very informative review from Acrwdof1, who's a professional and would know, on the dangers of shoulder holsters. But my heart needs more Tolster, and that review has been a lot of the inspiration for this tale. Thanks!**

**So... a kind of sequel to 'Abandoned'.**

Imitation is Not the Sincerest Form of McFlattery

By scousemuz1k

Tony came out of the elevator, back-pack and large brown bag in one hand, tray of hot drinks balanced in the other, and automatically did what he always did. He looked round. He couldn't see Gibbs' desk from where he stood, but judging by the way McGee was sitting with his chin propped up on his elbow, the Boss wasn't there. Ellie was standing, sorting a big pile of files into smaller ones. Clearly, she'd started work, even if Tim was Sweet Delilah Dreaming – to the Mamas and Papas tune, of course. Not that Tony grudged him, absolutely of course.

He took a step forward, and then stiffened. No, froze. At that moment Tim happened to detach his chin from his palm, and straighten up in his seat. He leaned back slightly, to pick something off the floor, and as his jacket fell open, Tony, who never missed anything, saw he was wearing a shoulder holster.

It was like a punch in the gut.

No, dammit, that was wrong. That was so wrong. It was so wrong he couldn't begin to put it into words. He hadn't thought of that, and he should have done. He'd never intended...damn... stay calm, think of something. With a monumental effort, he schooled his face into its usual morning neutral zone, (to be adjusted to suit when he discovered what mood the Boss was currently in,) and breezed into the bull pen.

With a cheery greeting, he distributed breakfast, with two cups of coffee to Gibbs' desk, _of course_. He was getting a bit tired of that expression. Tim was wearing a shoulder holster... not a matter of course at all. He came to McGee's desk last, handed over his breakfast with a smile, and tried earnestly not to stare at the right side of his team-mate's jacket, under which the offending object lurked.

Tim wouldn't have described himself as the best at reading body language; but his thinking on the subject was still stuck in pre self-preservation days. He wasn't aware how much ducking Gibbs' temper and withstanding Tony's humour had taught him over the years – but as he looked up to thank his friend, he read _something_.

Something. What? If he hadn't known that he hadn't done anything to anger Tony, anger would have been what he'd have guessed. In any case he couldn't imagine ever doing anything, even accidentally, to bring on the mood Tony was disguising. They were colleagues... partners... friends.

He waited for Tony to say something; when nothing was forthcoming, he opted for humour. Picking up the deli food bag, he sniffed appreciatively. "First detective job of the day... chicken, avocado, cheese... red sauce, maybe? That's good, thanks, Tony."

The older man's mouth smiled, at least a little, but he didn't rise to the opening he'd been given; just muttered a 'you're welcome' and headed for his desk. He only spoke once in the next hour, to ask Gibbs' whereabouts, and be told he'd gone to the Hoover Building, but every time Tim looked up he was looking at him, or unseeingly at the file in front of him, with a tabby-cat frown between his brows. Tim raised a brow of his own, the last time it happened, but Tony's frown only increased, and he went back to his file.

Ellie had been looking from one to the other in bewilderment, and when Tony disappeared to the head, she said thoughtfully, "I'm going to go down to see Abby, while you two sort this out."

"You've a lot of faith," Tim said sourly. "I can't sort it if I don't know what it is."

"You'll think of something."

"Well... don't tell Abby, or she'll be up here."

"Understood." Tony was heading back. "I need Abby's advice on these ballistics, Tony. Call if you need me." She scampered off towards the internal elevator, before the SFA could think of a believable reason for calling her back.

He cringed inside as he sat at his desk again; as long as the Bish had been there to protect him, he hadn't had to find answers for impossible questions. He'd been trying all morning, but he couldn't come up with a convincing tale, and telling the truth was just as unpalatable as telling porkies. It was his own fault. He'd already said that, like twenty times. He should have thought further ahead. He'd said that too. And Tim was coming across towards him.

The younger man didn't waste any time.

"It's Gibbs' thing, letting us know we've offended him, but not telling us why. Expecting us to work it out. Mind read. It doesn't suit _you_. And I can't put it right if I don't know what it is I've done." He winced; he hadn't actually meant for his tone to come out slightly belligerent; he knew he wasn't good at this, and he expected Tony to reply in kind, which he did.

The SFA pushed his chair back and looked up at him. "What makes you think _you've_ done anything?" Tim just looked at him sceptically, thinking that if he opened his mouth, he'd probably make things worse. But he had to fix it. Just when he was finally about to blurt something, anything, Tony said flatly, "Imitation isn't the sincerest form of McFlattery."

Tim blinked. He still had no idea... until he realised DiNozzo was glaring at his shoulder. Light dawned, and he was so astonished that diplomacy fled. "My shoulder holster? You're mad because I'm wearing a _shoulder holster_? Why shouldn't I?"

"You shouldn't. It's not a good idea."

"Why not? You do!" He pointed at the Italian's close fitting leather rig. "Tony, I've seen you preen every time a woman gives you an admiring glance. You absolutely pose!" He paused, and frowned, but went on before Tony could say anything, "Is that it? I thought we were past that? You don't want me to get the admir –" He stopped. No, no that wasn't right. Come on, they _were_ past that. "No. I didn't mean that. I don't think that. I don't know what I think, but whatever it is, it's not good." _Stop babbling, McGee! "_What's wrong? I can't think of a crazier thing to get mad about."

Tony tilted his chair even further back, and rocked it silently for a moment, looking at his knees, and his hands resting on them. Tim was right. He'd spent the entire morning trying to avoid doing the only thing possible. The unpalatable truth, then. "I'm not _mad_ at you, Tim." He gestured to the corner of his desk, and Tim sat down on it. "I'm worried."

"Worried?"

"Yeah. Look, I'll... explain." He sighed. "But... would you tell me something?"

Tim raised an eyebrow for the second time that morning. "Yeah... I guess..."

"Why _did_ you decide to wear a shoulder holster?"

"Well... I've seen how you seem to be comfortable in one – you don't always wear it, but you do seem to like it. I've never used one. So, I borrowed one from Kes down in the armoury, to see what I thought."

Tony sighed. "So it _was_ because of me. Did Kes say anything?"

"Not really... well, he asked me if I was sure, and he seemed a bit disapproving."

"Yeah, he would be. I am too... I... er... I want you to stop wearing it, but I can't ask because I'm not going to stop myself."

Tim shook his head. "Now you're talking in riddles."

"Yeah. Tim, there's a very strong feeling among law officers, and the people who train them, that shoulder holsters can actually stop you from getting at your weapon if you're grappling with an assailant, or trying to arrest someone. They're certainly comfortable..." he fingered the broad leather pad on his left shoulder, "I've had this gal since Baltimore...she and I suit each other... but they're not always practical, and sometimes they're dangerous. Especially if you're not used to one. I should have thought about it – that you might like the idea – before I went back to using one."

Tim frowned, and nodded. "So... you were looking out for me, well... that's... that's really good... but you didn't want to say so. Why not? Why sit there frowning all morning?"

Tony smiled, but it was a rather sad one. "What's the next question you'd ask?"

Tim didn't have to think about it. "If they're dangerous, why don't I stop wearing it myself?"

"It'd mean admitting things. D'you remember three months ago? You and me having to take down those three drunken sailors in the Feathers Bar? The pasting we took before we got the job done?"

"No-one joined in to help us, and the owner moaned about the mess."

"Twas ever thus. You were hobbling the next day, and trying to hide that your arm hurt, and I was trying to hide that it hurt to sit down!" Yet again, he looked at his knees, before raising his eyes back to his friend's. "Tim, you'll feel you ought to tell Gibbs, but I don't want you to. Thing is, the shoulder I damaged fighting Rivkin, and which, I might add, Eli David took a poke at while I was in Israel – "

"_What?_"

"Long story. I damaged it again in that fight. Not much, just muscle strain is all. But it's slow to heal. It's getting there... but... all right, if you _must_ know, it's because I'm not as young as I used to be, and do you know how much I _don't_ want to think like that? Next morning, I noticed Bibi –"

"Bibi?" Tim asked, aware that he was sounding like an echo.

"Yeah. Bibi, my baby from Baltimore... she was hanging on the back of my bedroom door, she'd been there for ages, and I remembered how this pad used to fit really snugly... see, it's wadded on the back, great design. I was hurting a bit, so I put her on, and it was good. It helped. So every time I ache a bit, I wear the shoulder holster. The pressure helps – you'd think it'd make it worse, but it doesn't. It keeps my back straight too, when I want to curl up round the pain, so that's good too, stops Gibbs noticing..." Tony paused, realising he'd said more than he'd intended to. "Look, I'm not whinging. It's not that bad... you see? I never wanted to say anything."

"That's why you sat there glowering all morning instead of telling me?"

"Well, if the boot was on the other foot, would you have liked to give me a dose of 'don't do as I do, do as I say', and admit you were feeling your age?" Tony grinned wryly. "I'd have sorted it in the end; it just hit me a bit hard. Just sorry I gave you a hard time."

"You didn't. I tackled you." Tim bit his lip as he thought for a moment. "But... if it's not safe for me, then you can't make out it's safe for you."

"I know. If I've thought we're going into a dodgy situation where we might be in hand-to-hand, I've put the gun in my pocket first. I can always shoot a hole in my best British Worsted Wool."

"I've never seen you do that. Hide the gun, I mean, not shoot a hole in your Zegna."

"That's because I never _intended_ for anyone to see me. I... suppose you could do the same. You can take the safety catch off your Sig in your pocket, without looking at it, can't you? Then you could keep on wearing the holster..."

Tim smiled, and shook his head. What he wanted to say was sentimental, and not the sort of thing you risked saying to Tony, but considering what the Italian had just said to him, it was the least he could do.

"You were protecting me. That's nice." He was removing his jacket as he spoke. "I'm not going to worry you." He peeled off the offending article. "I'll take it back down to Kes." He walked over and hung it on his seat, then looked back across the bull pen, happy to see the complete change in Tony's body language. "And I'll never tell Zoe, or anyone else, about your relationship with..." he drooped his eyelids in a most suggestive and un-Timlike way, "Bibi."


End file.
